


Guardian

by VSSAKJ



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Gen, Tales of Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VSSAKJ/pseuds/VSSAKJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kratos, it seems the Chosen's successor in Tethe'alla shall be born this year. Aren't you excited?” Yggdrasill did not wait for a reply, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “Have you prepared? You'll be responsible.”</p><p>Kratos sketched a low half-bow. “Yes, Lord Yggdrasill.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guardian

**Author's Note:**

> Written for talesofbb. Possibly the most I've ever written in two months. I wanted to explore the unique potential relationship between Kratos and Zelos, concerning myself largely with Zelos's personal issues regarding Kratos that seem apparent in the Zelos ending. Strictly game-relevant canon with some manga references for flavour, but even with that limitation I don't claim to be 100% canon-compliant.
> 
> Immensely grateful to my partner, beta, and sounding board Gargant. This would have been significantly shorter and—I think—much less interesting without her. Thanks for reading!

“Ms Mylene,” Her maid curtseyed in the doorway, “You have a visitor.”

“Another?” Mylene growled with exhaustion, pushing back her unkempt hair and adjusting the swaddled baby in her arm. “They do realise I've just given birth, do they not?”

“Yes ma'am.” Another nervous curtsey, impossible girl. “But he said he would be brief, and must insist on attending now.”

“Do I look ready to receive visitors?” Why the chit thought _this_ particular stranger would be any different to the half-dozen she'd already turned away, Mylene didn't know. This conversation felt like a never-ending scene in a dull, repetitive play.

“He also said he would be respectful of you.”

“Then tell him to respect my privacy by leaving.” Mylene turned her back to make the words final; if there was anything worse than forcing a screaming little creature into the world that would destroy him, it was having to simper and smile as every fucking noble in Meltokio came to offer their damnable congratulations. Already the nursery was overflowing with gifts, all untouched and haphazard in a corner, and she could hardly move for the stifled nature of the place.

“Please pardon my intrusion.”

The quiet, unfamiliar voice prompted Mylene to whirl around, demanding, “Who are you?” Despite every emotion the child fostered within her, she felt herself clutch him tighter to her chest, hunching defensively around the tiny body. The stranger was taller than her and dressed oddly, completely devoid of typical noble trappings; he took the time to gently shut the door behind him, wore a plain sword on his hip, and thankfully maintained his distance.

Mylene scowled when he did not reply. “I told her to dismiss you. Who let you in here?”

“I granted myself entrance. The girl is not to blame.” He regarded her with a weighted, sombre gaze. “May I see the next Chosen?”

She could have spat. Mylene straightened, raising her chin to its most imperious. “The Chosen's heir is no spectacle to be gawked at by just anyone, and I'm afraid you are no person I recognise. Please _leave_.”

Now the man stared at her, his neutral expression unchanged by her scorn; the only sign that her resistance was troubling him was a deep line furrowing between his brows.

 _Good. Better than nothing._ “Well?” Mylene huffed, as he did not move.

“We of Cruxis bless this event.” The man spoke suddenly, and his voice seemed deeper, full of a timbre that filled the room. “My name is Kratos. I'm...” He paused, looking thoughtful. “A friend of Yuan's.”

“The speaker for Cruxis at court?” Mylene shook her head, “None of those things will endear you to me.”

“I know.” Kratos acquiesced, dipping his head slightly, which surprised her—he didn't seem the type to subserve. “May I see him?”

“It seems I won't get a moment's peace until you do.” Mylene finally sighed, loud and exasperated, and drew back the blankets to reveal the baby's sleeping face.

Kratos drew near. “Have you named him?”

“Zelos.”

“A good name.”

“Do you really care?” Mylene moved to turn away, but Kratos rested a hand lightly on her arm, giving her pause.

“He will need a good name.” Kratos murmured, removing a red gem in a gold setting from his pocket. Before Mylene had time to react, he pressed the gem into the centre of little Zelos's chest, just below the hollow of his throat. Light glowed beneath the setting before the gem seemed to burrow into place, and Zelos began to cry.

Mylene tore sharply away from Kratos, rocking Zelos perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary. “Forgive me if I fail to thank you for your _generosity_.”

Kratos looked at her with a sad expression. “Mylene, please allow me to help you.”

Mylene held her chin high once more, a pillar. “Do you really think you could do anything to help me?” Her lover, vanished, perhaps permanently indisposed. Her disgusting Oracle-given husband, absent and invested in some half-elf bitch he _might_ even care for. Her son, her only child, doomed before he was born. And this man, a proponent of the very system that had brought her to such shambles, thought to offer her help. “Get out.”

Kratos hesitated, then sighed. “I will not let him be abandoned. I will visit him. As he grows. You will see me again.”

“Life is far too unfair to permit otherwise, isn't it?” Mylene's smile was sour and thin and when she turned her back this time, the nursery remained silent behind her. Moments later, her only company was Zelos's insistent wailing.

 

As usual, Sebastian announced himself with a light rap on the frame of his door. “Young Master Zelos, Lord Kratos has arrived to see you.”

“Oh good, thanks Sebastian.” Zelos jumped to leave the book-laden table behind and crossed the room to collect his practice equipment. He was short and so was the thick, wooden blade; no one expected him to be learning swordplay so young, but Kratos insisted on visiting and didn't seem good at anything else. Although his mother had never spoken a word against it, Zelos knew she disapproved—from time-to-time he caught sight of Mylene watching them through the window, her lips thin.

That was fine. She disapproved of everything.

Kratos stood in the back garden, his own sword and buckler carefully laid to one side as he hefted the weight of a wooden practice mark. He dipped his head as Zelos clattered through the door. “Good afternoon, Chosen.”

“At least call me by name.” Zelos whined, hands on his hips, “No one else does.”

“Zelos.” Kratos's voice seemed to warm, “Have you been practicing?”

Zelos drew himself up proudly; at his four-year-old tallest, he was still less than half Kratos's height, but his back was straight and his face glowed with pride, “Of course I have. I'm going to beat you this time!”

Kratos's normally impassive face quirked in a wry smile. “Come on then, knave.”

Zelos leapt into an excited attack, all energy and no form. He darted this way and that, swinging his sword in wild two-handed strikes, each one landing with a resounding thwack against Kratos's block. The occasional shout burst from Zelos's lips as he tried to break through, but against Kratos's patient defense, his interest quickly began to wane.

The better part of a half hour passed without Zelos landing so much as a potential scratch, and he grew grumpier and grumpier until he finally threw his blade away and demanded, “Why are you so much better than me?!”

Kratos eased his sword to a resting position at his hip, tilting his head to one side, “I have a great deal more experience than you. Being taller than you and heavier than you is also a significant advantage in one-on-one combat.”

Even the answers to his questions were lessons. Zelos sank down crosslegged in the grass, picking moodily at the trampled stems. “What's the point in me doing this anyway? I'm never going to need it.”

“You're the Chosen.”

Zelos scrunched up his face. “That doesn't explain anything. It doesn't even mean anything.”

Kratos frowned, stepping nearer to Zelos. “Who's told you that?”

“No one.” Zelos hunched forward, drawing his knees up to his chest, “People just say it all the time like it's an answer, but it doesn't make anything make more sense. It's just something people say. Sebastian actually explains things when I ask him.”

“Much too young...” Kratos murmured, ostensibly to himself, but Zelos bristled.

“I am not! I'll be five soon! I have a little half-sister, you know. I'm responsible.”

“Seles.” Kratos nodded agreement, settling down onto the grass next to Zelos, “How is she?”

“She's kind of a baby. But I like her. I get to see her sometimes, and she's started being able to play with me.” A pause. “Mylene doesn't like it.”

“Your mother, Zelos. She's your mother.”

“She's not like Seles's mother. At least Seles's mother cares about her!” Zelos raised his voice in protest. “And so does Eadgar, but he doesn't want anything to do with me. He just looks sad whenever I'm around. They don't think I can tell. They both look at me like I'm not really there.”

“Your father.” Kratos corrected with a deep sigh, his expression pained. He said nothing further.

Zelos pressed his face into his folded arms, mumbling.

“Don't say that.” Kratos countered immediately.

“Why?!” Zelos leapt to his feet, eyes brimming with tears and fists clenched in young fury, “At least you _care_!”

“You don't understand what you're saying.” Kratos rumbled, also pushing himself to his feet. He turned his back to collect his proper sword, clearly intending to leave.

Seething, Zelos groped for his wooden sword and lunged forward, aiming a swing at Kratos's exposed back. Kratos turned fluidly and blocked the blow with his sheath, his words cool, “Good, Chosen. Always take advantage when your enemy's weak point is exposed, or when their guard is down.”

“You're stupid.” Zelos hissed, chucking his sword away again and stomping his feet impotently, “You're stupid and mean and just like all of them. I hate being Chosen. I hate you.”

“As you should.” Kratos snapped, striding from the garden without a further glance.

Zelos stared after him in confused silence before whirling around and pelting into the house, shouting unhappily for Sebastian.

 

Kratos did not visit again. Several weeks after their disagreement in the garden, Zelos had asked Sebastian if he knew whether or not Kratos would come back; Sebastian had said he was unaware of Kratos's intentions, but that Kratos hadn't given any indication he was departing permanently. After another week or two, Zelos had given up on hoping. After a few months, he decided he didn't want Kratos to come back anyway.

Bored and unattended, Zelos wandered through the manor and wondered why Kratos had abandoned him. Despite its size, the manor and its stark, well-groomed grounds felt like a prison to him, and from time to time he imagined climbing over the garden wall and running away. No one would even notice, he thought peevishly to himself, but somehow Sebastian always found him when those moods seeped in and drew him back from that unhappy place. Despite Sebastian's steadfast presence, a part of Zelos longed to find a place where no one would call him 'Chosen'.

They had few visitors; Mylene hated everyone and refused to entertain all but the most important of nobility. On the rare occasions he saw his mother, her eyes slid past him to fix on a distant place and her lips went tight. One particularly moody day, Zelos found himself in front of the closed door to her favoured parlour. She never wanted anything to do with him, but today he was too lonely and frustrated to care.

He eased the door open and stepped inside. “Mylene.”

He saw her stiffen, but she didn't look at him. “What is it, Zelos?”

“Is Kratos coming back? Sebastian doesn't know.”

Mylene shot him a withering glance. “I wouldn't concern yourself with that.”

Zelos ducked his chin, defensive, “I like him. I want to practice.”

Mylene's tone bit. “The last I heard you hated him.”

Zelos went red in the face, clenching his hands into fists and chewing his lower lip. Being ridiculed like this was worse than being lonely. He should have ignored her room, like he always did. It was only fair—she ignored the rest of the house, and it ignored her. Full of shame, Zelos thought it was probably best that way. He wriggled uncomfortably on the spot, longing to flee but still desperate for _something_ from his mother.

Mylene watched him for a moment, then sighed, her expression twisted up. “Practice without him.”

“I can't. You have to learn it from someone.”

“Well I have no talent with a sword, so you'll need to find someone else to practice with.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Compelled, Zelos blurted out the question before he could stop himself. He regretted it instantly, his eyes welling with tears. “What did I do?”

The silence stretched. Mylene knotted her hands together and gazed firmly into middle distance. Finally, she said, “I don't hate you. I'm just not a very good mother.”

“No, you're not.” Zelos agreed, and flew from the room before he had to face her reaction.

 

“Master Zelos.”

_You should never have been born._

Zelos rolled away from the knock. “Go away, Sebastian.”

“You've been called to stand witness at the trial, Young Master.” Sebastian pushed the door open, his voice full of both sympathy and firmness. “I'm afraid I cannot allow you to neglect this particular appointment.”

Zelos poked his head out from beneath the bedcovers, scowling, “Why not? Everyone knows what happened. They don't really need me to say anything, they just want to show me off.”

“You're right.” Sebastian nodded simply, smoothing a newly-tailored suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs in the room. “Unfortunately, this is one instance where you must be shown.”

Still scowling, Zelos kicked back the covers and rose from bed. Sebastian moved a step away from the suit, which was black on black with a slip of red tie to match his hair. Zelos cocked his head towards Sebastian, “Can't I wear something else? I'm not really mourning anything.” A part of him wanted to ask why he couldn’t wear the same suit he’d worn to his father’s funeral, but for some reason the words stuck in his throat. Something about wearing the same clothes to acknowledge both his parents’ deaths made him want to crawl back into bed and never come out.

“You may wear what you like, Master Zelos, but I would suggest their sympathy may be more tolerable than their scorn.” Sebastian turned his back, arms folded at the base of his spine.

“It's all fake anyway.” Zelos shrugged, pulling off his underclothes and beginning to dress. The suit jacket smelled faintly pleasant, dusted with a mild fragrance that seemed intended to ward off misery. However, its shirt collar was stiff and scratchy, and Zelos grimaced as he worked through the buttons. Sebastian had really taken care of everything for him—there were even new socks. The rumpled suit from his father's funeral hung in his closet like a ghost, and he made sure not to look its way. 

“What would you like me to do with the letters from the folk of our fair city?”

Even without seeing Sebastian's face, Zelos could tell there was a smile on his lips. He grinned sharply, more grateful than he could express. “I don't need any more parents, and the Chosen doesn't need any more fake friends.”

“Very well, Young Master.” On that note, Sebastian strode from the room.

 

Confronting the remnants of Meltokio's freak snowfall nearly made him sick. Blindsided by the sagging piles of white, Zelos swayed in place and clung to Sebastian's arm, his mouth filling up with the scent of blood. He hung his head, shuddering, and very nearly asked if they could go back inside. Sebastian stood calm and patient, resting a hand on Zelos's shoulder. After a moment, he spoke softly, “The weather is mild. It will finish melting soon.”

Zelos gave the smallest of nods, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. The idea of returning to and lying in his bed for the rest of time was both enticing and revolting. He'd never hear the end of it; he'd never forget the taste of it.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “Come, Master Zelos. We have an appointment.”

Resolute, Zelos nodded more firmly and coaxed his fingers free from their rigid grip on Sebastian's arm. He was his own household now: he was the Wilder name. He was the Chosen, too. And despite that, he wanted to keep being Zelos. They walked.

The courtroom was stuffy, crammed with too many people and too many whispers. Zelos sat with his back perfectly straight and his hands laid flat on his knees, Sebastian a quiet presence at his side. When he'd entered the courtroom, he'd heard the telltale hush of hundreds of conversations dying at once, then one distinct murmur of, “That poor thing, only seven and with no parents to speak of.”

Seles's mother sat flanked by the Pope's retinue, with her hands bound and her chin lifted defiantly in an expression that reminded Zelos of Mylene's disdain. No matter what happened today, it looked like she considered her actions worthwhile. Zelos hated her, envied her, and wasn’t sure he could blame her.

More difficult to observe was his half-sister Seles, who sat prim and straight-backed like him on the other side of the room. She sat next to a member of the clergy, some cleric who'd been billed to stand as her defense once the trial began. Seles didn't have anything to do with this directly—she hadn't been present—but Zelos worried they might try to somehow hurt her further. Surely forcing her to attend as a suspect was bad enough.

The trial proved boring and uneventful. Seles's mother elected not to raise a defense, instead pleading guilty as soon as they gave her the chance; her glower made Zelos shiver even with the cloying heat in the courtroom. Still, the judge insisted on proceeding through the motions, calling upon the prosecution and a selection of witnesses before turning a partial smile on Zelos. “Would the Chosen of Tethe'alla please take the stand.”

His father's full title fell heavily on his small shoulders.

_You should never have been born._

He stood, slowly, and walked to the front of the room, his skin crawling under a hundred pairs of eyes, all of whom expected... something from him. When he settled into place on the witness chair, a funny little smile crept across his face, one he couldn't explain. He knew, and they didn't know. He knew exactly what they were looking for.

“Chosen One, please give your testimony.”

“That half-elf killed my mother.” Zelos spoke with confidence, not a waver to be heard. Then, without waiting to be dismissed, he stood and begin crossing the room to rejoin Sebastian.

“Wait!” The judge called after him, “Is there anything more you'd like to say?”

_You should never have been born._

“No.” Zelos replied without pausing.

 

The day Kratos returned was grey, cloudy, and temperate, the very epitome of inconsequential. At that age, Zelos was working on his ten-year-old charisma and practicing swordplay when he couldn't be bothered to sparkle in false company. He'd reached the point where puberty was nearly upon him; his grip was sure but his reach felt forever shorter than it should be. In the long absence of his first teacher, Sebastian had trialed several other instructors, but they’d either been stuffy and old-fashioned or excitable young braggarts, all much more devoted to the idea of having schooled the Chosen than ensuring Zelos developed any self-defense to speak of.

Rusty but stubborn, those days Zelos practiced alone, dueling a shadow opponent and making up combative stories as he went. When the still-familiar cut of red-brown hair showed above the hedge, Zelos jolted to a standstill and stared in disbelief.

Kratos looked older than a younger Zelos remembered, his eyes sunken and dull. Sternly, Zelos quelled the excitement quickening his heartbeat and said instead, “Long time no see, old man.”

Kratos fixed him with a blank stare before drawing his sword in a flurry and slashing downward.

“Hey!” Zelos yelped, only just managing to block in time, “What are you doing?!”

“You're out of practice, Chosen.” Kratos growled through gritted teeth, advancing relentlessly as Zelos made desperate, weaving blocks.

“And whose fault is that?” Zelos snapped, finally managing to lock his sword against Kratos's, his arms quivering with exertion. “A lot's changed since you left. I'm older now, and taller too.” Kratos held, so Zelos pulled back and rounded another furious swing, “I don't have parents anymore. And everyone wants me to like them.”

“Plenty has changed.” Kratos agreed, withdrawing suddenly; Zelos stumbled and nearly fell, scowling. Kratos went on as though nothing had happened. “You need a buckler. And to begin using magic appropriately.”

“You think you can just—” Zelos stared. “Are you crazy? People can't use magic.”

“But Chosens can.” Kratos rounded, pressing a small bit of grey stone into his hand, “Eat this.”

“It's a rock.” Zelos spoke with disbelief, holding the stone between two fingers and peering at it, “I can't eat it.”

“Chew with your back teeth.” Kratos closed Zelos's fingers around it and raised to to Zelos's mouth, murmuring, “There's a new Chosen in Sylvarant.”

Zelos blinked, stuffing the stone into his mouth; somehow, the gravitas with which Kratos spoke made the words feel heavier. The stone crunched between his molars, not as hard to chew as he would have expected. Swallowing the thick, dusty chalk, Zelos asked, “What does that mean?”

“It means you have plenty more to learn.”

Zelos drew himself up to make a snappy comment, but just then pain fissured open within him and he crumpled to his knees. Gasping, Zelos hissed, “What... the hell is this...”

“Such language...” Kratos muttered under his breath, kneeling down to slide his arms beneath Zelos's shaking shoulders. He stood easily, as though completely unencumbered.

“I still hate you.” Zelos whispered, even as he curled in against Kratos's chest and clutched with one weak hand. When he lost consciousness a moment later, his grip remained fixed.

 

“—only a minor side-effect. The same happened to me.”

“I see.” Even through the fog between his ears, Sebastian's voice sounded crisp and dry to Zelos; it hurt to stretch his face muscles, but he smiled gratefully. His whole body ached in places he hadn't realised he had, and he felt rather like his insides had been wrung out then replaced in the wrong order. His feet and fingers felt very far away.

Sebastian's voice distracted him from the willowy sensation within him. “Pardon my presumption, but although there is a great deal I could recount regarding the Master, I feel you know the details already.”

Kratos made a rueful noise. His tone was self-deprecating. “When did he progress from Young Master?”

“The day Lord Eadgar took his own life.” Sebastian's reply was sharp and short; Kratos did not speak further.

Zelos's addled mind entertained the quite tempting idea of going back to sleep, but the next thing he heard was a familiar but fractured voice rasping from his own throat, “There are a few things you could stand to tell me, though.”

In a moment, both men were at his side, Sebastian easing a damp cloth to his lips and asking, “How do you feel, Master Zelos?”

“Amazing.” Zelos replied, even though struggling to sit up made him feel like he’d fallen off the Grand Tethe’alla Bridge. Swallowing the trickle of water from the cloth made him want more to drink, but Sebastian didn’t offer a glass and Zelos’s fleeting attention wandered. Kratos had initially followed Sebastian near enough at hand, but now settled into a chair pulled up to the bedside. The position looked like it came to him easily, a sure sign that he'd spent a good deal of time there while Zelos had been unconscious. Unsure which of them he hoped to engage, he queried aloud, “How long was I asleep?”

“A day and a half.” Kratos replied before Sebastian could speak, “Not an unreasonable length of time, given the circumstances.”

Sebastian made a small noise in the back of his throat.

Zelos stretched as much as he could stand without wincing, gazing off-handedly to one side, “I could do with a meal.”

“I understand, Master Zelos.” Sebastian straightened, offered them both a tidy bow, and left the room, shutting the door with a soft snick.

“Okay.” Zelos said immediately, “What the hell was that?”

Kratos passed a hand over his face. “You shouldn't curse. You're too young.”

“You don't get to tell me what to do anymore. You haven't been here. You don't know anything.” Zelos retorted. “Don't change the subject. What was that?”

Kratos sighed loudly, sitting back in the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked thoughtful before finally saying just one word: “Aionis.”

Zelos blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It's what allows you to use magic.”

“That's not an explanation.”

“It's what I am permitted to tell you.”

“What does that even mean?!” Zelos growled; when Kratos didn't answer him, he carried on, sulky, “I can ask a different question if you want. Maybe you’ll even be _allowed_ to answer it. Where did you go? Why did you leave? I.” Zelos ground to a halt on the sudden realisation, biting his lip and looking away. “I missed you.”

Kratos blanched, looking like he'd been torn in half. Haltingly, he replied, “Chosen... Zelos. I'm sorry.”

“That doesn't help any now, does it?” Zelos curled away into the covers, prickly all over and uncomfortable. “I'm sorry Eadgar killed himself. I'm sorry Seles's mother was executed for killing mine. You knew, and you didn't come back. You're stupid.”

“I _didn't_ know.” Kratos's interjection sounded nearly defensive. “Not until I resumed my duties with Cruxis.”

“That's even more stupid.” Zelos looked at him, searching for a reasonable explanation, “What were you even doing?”

The ghost of a wry, pained smile flitted across Kratos's face. “Nothing of note.”

“So you're still not going to tell me.” Zelos turned away again, crossing his arms stubbornly, “Why did you bother coming back? You're no good for anything.”

“You're right.” Kratos muttered.

Zelos startled. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. You don't know what you're saying.”

“I never do, do I?” Zelos snapped, feeling his neck flush with sudden fury. If he'd ever before now imagined a reunion with Kratos, it had certainly never gone like this. “Tell me again how much I don't know.”

“You have no idea what you're saying.” Kratos rose to his feet and bellowed; the words were too familiar for Zelos to stand. He leapt to his feet on the bed and shouted in return.

“Then _tell me_! I'm sick of people telling me I don't know anything! I'm sick of people expecting me to not know things and then being angry when I do, and then refusing to explain what they mean if I don't know all of it! I'm not a kid! Stop lying to me!”

“Master Zelos, I've brought your meal.”

Sebastian's voice reminded him how much his insides hurt. Zelos sank back down onto the bed, exhaustion and aches resuming as the anger drained from him. Kratos strode to the far corner of the room and crossed his arms over his chest, making a study of a particularly nondescript corner. Sebastian ignored him and set the tray down on the table alongside the bed. After a moment, Sebastian spoke again, “Shall I leave you to schedule the resumption of your sword training, Master?”

“Right.” Zelos made an indistinct motion, much too distracted by the rising smell of soup to consider a proper response. The first several swallows made his stomach churn dangerously, but the rest of his body seized onto the idea of nutrition so violently that he couldn't stop eating even if he wanted to. It wasn't until he let the spoon drop into an empty bowl that Kratos spoke again.

“Aionis is an ore with properties which allow humans to wield magic. It was first discovered long ago and has been kept out of reach of modern science. It is also very rare.”

Zelos blinked. “That's a start. So you're saying I can use magic now.”

“Yes.”

Zelos peered at him suspiciously. “How much of this Chosen stuff is just Cruxis making things happen?”

Kratos gave Zelos a look, his mouth thin and quirked to one side. “Would you really like me to answer that question?”

Those words were answer enough. Zelos shook his head, stretching a hand out in front of him with his fingers widespread. “So, I just put my hand out like this and think really hard and then poof, magic?”

“There are verbal components to each spell, used as a means to focus your intent and concentrate mana into the force you require.”

Zelos made a face and sank back into the pillow, shaking his head slowly. “That sounds complicated.”

“It is simple once you begin. You will excel.”

Zelos's heartbeat quickened at the promise of future praise; then he hated himself for being excited. He fiddled with the edge of the bedspread. Quietly, he said, “I'd kind of like to get the sword and shield down first. You know, if you're not busy disappearing and things. No one else makes a very good teacher.”

Kratos smiled, painful to see. “Of course, Chosen.”

And that made it quite clear what Zelos could expect.

 

Zelos's training resumed. Something about Kratos had changed in the years of his absence, something a moody and hormonal Zelos had no patience for or interest in investigating. They practiced extensively at first to make up for lost time, gradually fading away to an aggressive half-day session every two weeks. Zelos hated how much he worried that Kratos would disappear again, and put the hatred into every sweeping slice. Kratos was nonresponsive—more infuriating than if he fought back with avengeance.

In the summer of his thirteenth year, Zelos grew like a weed, billowing up to grapple at Kratos's height and adapting to his newly-lengthened limbs with surprising ease. Years of stubborn effort fell into place almost overnight; it seemed as though his skills had continually progressed beyond his stature and only now could his body truly keep up with them. The buckler quickly moulded to his style, but mastering magic was a different matter altogether.

“Fireball!” Zelos's voice cracked halfway through the word, and he flung his hand down furiously as mana failed to convalesce. If he could have thrown it further, he would have.

Kratos stood by with a critical gaze, his arms crossed. “You're failing to maintain your focus, Chosen.”

“I wonder why!” Zelos snarled savagely, turning his face away and dashing at his eyes. He wasn't crying—he'd failed at this too many times already for it to set him off so quickly—but he hated letting Kratos see him so frustrated.

Kratos remained silent long enough that Zelos turned to look at him. The expression on Kratos's face was complicated, stricken and stern at once. He murmured, “... You must move on.”

“I have moved on.” Zelos countered, drawing himself up and tossing his hair over his shoulder. “I've done a hell of a lot more than you in the last few years. I'll be going to Sybak Academy soon. I'll...” What was he going to do that wouldn't be dictated, one way or another, by Cruxis? What choices did he really have? Zelos frowned, rubbing his shoulder.

“Why does it trouble you so?”

“Why? Why do you think?!” Zelos snapped. “I'll just cast the same spell that killed my mother, doesn't that sound like fun to you?”

Kratos made a noise in the back of his throat, touching the hilt of his sword. He spoke thoughtfully. “The spell from your fingers is not that which killed Mylene.”

“It's still my fault she died.”

Kratos blanched. “... Zelos.”

Sullen, Zelos whined, “Oh, apparently that's good enough to make you call me by name.”

The yard was silent until Kratos spoke again. “Your mother's first instinct was to protect you. I understand that you may not have found her agreeable, but she cared about you as only a mother does for her child. They will die gladly...” Kratos faded off.

“Don't lecture me.” Zelos waved a dismissive hand. “I know about mothers and how they can care about their children. I know how they _don't_ , too. I had a mother a lot more recently than you did, old man.”

“You have no idea.” Kratos sighed. “My intention was to advise you that although magic may have killed your mother, magic may also serve to defend you.”

“Yeah, some little ball of fire is totally going to keep me safe.”

“Grave!” Kratos shouted suddenly, and the earth beneath Zelos's feet began to tremble. Swearing, Zelos dove to one side as vicious columns of earth spiked into the air where he'd been standing.

After he'd rolled back onto his feet, Zelos demanded, “What the hell was that!”

“A means of both offense and defense.” Kratos was impassive again, a familiar stranger. “You are the Chosen, Zelos. You must have the best options available to you. You must live.”

Zelos paced back and forth on the spot, kneading a scrape on his bare elbow. “Okay. Sure. But if it's that easy to dodge, how is it gonna help me?”

“Sometimes, dodging is not the most viable option.” Kratos extended his hand to display the gem set into the back of his hand. Zelos raised his fingers to the Cruxis Crystal resting beneath his throat; despite it having been there as long as he could remember, sometimes he caught sight of it in the mirror and felt inexplicably uncomfortable.

Kratos nodded and went on. “Your Cruxis Crystal allows you to—Guardian!”

Zelos watched the sphere of translucent mana expand around Kratos in time with Kratos's blocking manoeuvre. “That's... magic too?”

“A form thereof.” Kratos confirmed, lowering his blade. “If you would find it more agreeable, we may focus on this first. It will shield you from magical attacks, but only momentarily. You must time it precisely.”

“Teach me.” Zelos demanded, drawing his sword and moving into stance. This, at least, was something he could stomach. The rest could come later. Later.

 

A few years later found Zelos securely stationed at the peak of the social hierarchy in Sybak. Everyone he met wanted to do him favours—private or otherwise—and those he refused took his reticence as encouragement to make more lavish, extensive offers. The concept of doing his own assignments was foreign to him; his grades were perfect, completed by an array of enthusiastic so-called friends, and his time was instead occupied with whatever he damn well pleased. Chosen this and Chosen that; he played his role perfectly, drowned himself in distance from anyone, and missed Sebastian terribly. He'd never missed his own name so much.

He spent more time that he was willing to admit thinking about Seles, forever locked away in that tiny abbey by the coast while he made his way through the best Tethe'alla had to offer. He hadn’t visited her in a while, but she didn’t want to see him anyway. That the plethora of attention lobbied his way was for the title of Chosen and not him personally made little difference—factually, he could say with certainty that his life was much better than hers, and he didn't deserve it. Zelos knew she hated him, but he still wanted... to do something for her. She was the only real family he had left.

He devoted sleepless nights to nurturing emotions he preferred not to name, and mapped out all the options he could think of. In the end, one pulled ahead as the clearest, most appealing choice. Maybe she'd hate him for it, but she already did, so he had nothing to lose—nothing but a life he didn’t much fancy.

Home in Meltokio, he careened through court life, intimately aware of his irresistible charm to the nobility and taking advantage of every opportunity. Women threw themselves upon him and rich old families doted after his approval; a crook of his finger and they were all fawning at his feet. It was pathetic.

At one lavish palace affair, swanning through the crowds with a glass of champagne he was still too young to be drinking, Zelos made the decision to approach Yuan. Years ago, he'd overheard his mother arguing with the man—something about how she needed to take Zelos out in the public eye more often, but in the same breath ordering her not to make any of her opinions known at court without first consulting him. Without changing her habits in the slightest, Mylene had refused the former and enacted the latter.

Now that Zelos knew what his plans were, he needed options. Yuan, who Zelos had noted observing him regularly, was definitely a good place to start. Blithe, suited, and seventeen, Zelos swilled his flute of champagne and leaned heavily over Yuan's shoulder, feigning inebriation, “Long time no see, speaker for Cruxis.”

Yuan rolled his shoulder to dislodge Zelos, smoothing the motion into a neat one-armed bow, “Chosen One. Please forgive my impertinence; I was not advised that you had returned from the Academy.”

“I'm here every couple of weeks. I've got a standing appointment to keep. It just so happened this fabulous party had room for one more guest. Special consideration and all that, lucky me.” Zelos tilted his head to one side and winked, going on without missing a beat, “So tell me something. If you're supposed to represent Cruxis in court, why is Kratos the one who trained me?”

“Kratos?” Yuan both looked and sounded surprised, placing his fist at his chin and scowling thoughtfully. Zelos observed Yuan's expression and body language with careful suspicion, but arranged his face in a carefree grin the moment Yuan looked up. It had always seemed apparent enough to Zelos that Yuan and Kratos did not get along—Kratos came and went regularly, but Zelos had never seen them interact, nor had he ever heard one speak of the other. He hadn't known if evoking Kratos's name would be the right way to get Yuan on his side; based on Yuan's initial reaction, Zelos congratulated himself on having made the right choice.

When Yuan finally spoke, he kept his voice low, eyes darting from side to side. “How keen are you on being Chosen?”

Zelos laughed loudly. “I don't have much of a choice, do I? I already am what I am. And who would I be to disappoint all my adoring hunnies?” He gave a flourishing bow to mask the thrill of victory flushing through him; when he straightened, his most charming smile was firmly in place. This conversation was going somewhere.

“Hmm.” Yuan pursed his lips, glancing over his shoulder to confirm their privacy, “You may. I've considered this for a long time. It would depend.”

Zelos rolled his eyes. “Where have I heard that before? 'Oh Chosen, if you just do this one thing, I'll—'”

Yuan made a cutting motion with one hand and interrupted him. “By all means, if you intend to follow this fate through to your death, be my guest.”

“Hey.” Zelos could hear himself rising to the bait and didn't care. “Don't start threatening me.”

“It wasn't a threat.” Yuan turned dismissively away.

Zelos lunged forward and grabbed Yuan's wrist, masking the motion as a drunken fall. Showing more emotion than he intended, he hissed in Yuan's ear, “What are you offering?”

“Nothing we can discuss here.” Yuan's lip curled with disgust, and he hauled Zelos back to a fully upright position. “I'll send my contact to you, after you return to Sybak. His name is Botta. He'll give you an idea about our operations.”

Some days later, after Zelos had returned to the only slightly less-glamorous student life, Botta turned out to be a large man of few words and, apparently, fewer thoughts. Loathe though he was to be seen inviting a very conspicuous man into his quarters, Zelos asked Botta to step out of the public eye before easing the story out of him.

Yuan, via Botta, told him a lot of things others had seen fit to deny him. Now that he had the details spelled out for him, he felt stupid for not realising it sooner—of course there were currents moving against Cruxis within its own ranks. He'd already decided what he intended to do, Botta's explanation did little other than arm him with new knowledge no one expected him to have, and provide him some solid ground from which to negotiate. Botta left with the promise of a new agent for the Renegades, and Zelos remained profoundly certain about what he wanted. He would do one worthwhile thing without anyone else's approval: he would get Seles the life she deserved.

 

Not weeks later, Kratos spoke of Sylvarant’s Chosen starting her journey.

The weather had been foul, and Zelos had cheerfully avoided it by travelling to Altamira for several more weeks than necessary. When he returned, Sebastian advised him that Kratos had come to see him more than once, and would doubtless reappear shortly. As promised, Kratos showed within the day.

Judging by the expression on Kratos’s face, he had plenty to say, and having sat on it for weeks had done little to sweeten the words. Zelos didn’t care; he knew what Kratos had been keeping from him, and knew that he wouldn’t stand for it any longer. He wasn’t going to keep starting on the back foot.

“Where were you?” Kratos asked plainly, standing tall in the entryway of Zelos’s house as though he belonged. Silent and effective as usual, Sebastian excused himself when Zelos sauntered down the stairs.

“I’ve been on holiday. Do you get holidays, old man?” Zelos didn’t wait for Kratos to answer him. “Speaking of holidays, what are you doing here? What if Yuan kills your precious Sylvarant Chosen while you’re fucking around with me? Isn’t it your _job_ to keep her safe?”

“Colette is none of Yuan's concern.” Kratos's tone was heated; already he was showing more emotion than Zelos had drawn out of him in years. That was exciting.

“Really?” He countered, twisting his lips in a bitter grin, “To hear him tell it, he'd rather see her dead than doing whatever Chosen thing you're so keen on her accomplishing.”

“You shouldn't have spoken to Yuan.” Kratos growled, flexing his hand on the hilt of his sword. He moved to turn away, but Zelos raised his voice and Kratos stilled.

“Shouldn't I? Seems to me that I should’ve never been talking to _you_. Wouldn't that be good and miserable?” How good it felt to finally say those words aloud, to see them ping against Kratos like an arrow striking old, dented armour. All the years of painful, hopeful uncertainty and the pungent memory of the earliest betrayal burned within him, lending him a furious belligerence; there were so many things that could have been different.

Kratos said nothing, rooted in place and swaying only slightly back and forth while Zelos gazed down at him. It wasn't enough—he still wore that slightly pained but ultimately neutral expression, a line drawn between his brows and a minor downturn to his lips. Zelos wanted to see him writhing. Zelos wanted to see him hurt.

Performing carelessness, Zelos tossed his hair over one shoulder and waved a hand, “There are a few details Yuan hasn't been able to tell me, though, and I'm dying to know. Things like who Anna is.”

The name ploughed between them like a bolt of lightning striking soil, and the effect on Kratos was immediate. He seemed to implode inward, going ashen and limp as the fingers around his sword went slack. He slumped forward, hanging in place as though cast aside by his puppeteer, held up only by invisible lines plucking at the top of his skull and shoulders. A small part of Zelos—the small part of him that even now couldn't help but regard Kratos as a sort of father figure—watched this and wanted to take back the words. The rest of him, loud and vindictive and finally fucking getting somewhere, soared spiteful and jubilant above the rest, elated in its bitter glory.

“What did he tell you?” Kratos's voice was foreign, gravel ground away into pale dust.

“Oh nothing. Just that you ran off with her for a few years and that you're even more pathetic now that she's vanished. Did no one ever tell you that sex will do that for you? To think, all these years you just needed—”

“Shut up.” Kratos interrupted, halfway between a growl and a moan; he made a weak attempt towards drawing his sword, but seemed drained of all capacity to do anything but look miserable.

Unperturbed, Zelos continued to push. “So where is she now?”

“She's dead.” Kratos's voice creaked, small but somehow managing to fill the entire room.

“What a surprise.” Zelos could have guessed. He shrugged, a malicious grin plastered across his face. “People die all the time. What's the big deal?”

Kratos jerked sharply, his mouth contorting around unspoken words.

Zelos had shorn him open and knew it. He stepped forward, all up into Kratos's personal space, and hissed, “Oh I'm sorry, she was special to you, wasn't she? My bad, no one special _ever_ dies. And definitely not Chosens or their families, right?”

Kratos punched him, quicker than Zelos could react and harder than he expected. He hit the floor in a roll and reacted instinctively, preparing himself to cast a defense against Kratos's assault, but the man stood motionless, breathing heavily and glaring down at him. “She was my wife.” Kratos snarled eventually, and his next words seemed to deflate him again, “And I killed her.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Oh mighty angel of Cruxis?” Zelos spat, eyes glittering. “Surely killing people isn't that challenging. Or do Chosens not count as people?”

“That isn't...” Kratos couldn't find the words to finish his sentence, fading away into a firm frown. The fist with which he'd punched Zelos remained clenched at his side, an undeniable totem of his actions.

Zelos bounced back to his feet and brushed himself off, his gaze bitter. “Show's over, old man. I'm not playing anymore.” He waited, watching Kratos's eyes rake him over before he lifted his chin, not knowing how the gesture evoked his mother, “Now get out of my house.”

Kratos bowed his head, defeated, and left. That was the last time Kratos visited, and he took something with him when he left, though Zelos would never find himself able to define what.

 

His name was Lloyd.

When Zelos volunteered to join the Sylvarant Chosen’s group following Sheena’s failure to stop them on the Ossa Trail, he’d thought the most difficult person to be around was going to be Colette. After all, he’d known about her for over half his life, and with the title of Chosen came more commonality than anyone else could hope to understand. She was a significant part of what made playing the affable party member difficult—they were different people from different circumstances, bowed under similar expectations, and she was painful for him to be around, especially after she regained the ability to speak.

From the start, he noted that no one seemed to have trouble calling _her_ by name.

She reminded him of Seles. Colette, too, deserved a better life than what all these bastards had given her. Sweet, kind, selfless Colette deserved to want her life, rather than to expect it foregone that she would die. But Zelos wasn’t a hero, and he used the emotions Colette evoked to further strengthen his resolve for helping Seles. It didn’t matter what any of them thought of him. He knew what he wanted.

But Lloyd was different.

He wanted to hate Lloyd, in the beginning. Plucky, cheerful, and dumb—it would be easy, Zelos thought. For a time, he even managed it. But Lloyd’s… enthusiasm? Compassion? Goodness? Lloyd’s _Lloyd_ eventually began to wear through his defenses, and before he realised it, Zelos found himself instead wanting to believe some of what Lloyd did, even though he'd been through more than one experience that made Lloyd’s beliefs look impractical and naive.

He sold them out, more than once. To Yuan, to Pronyma: to anyone who’d promised him a step forward, to anyone who had something to gain from his duplicitousness. He gave them away just to prove he could, then stayed by their side to do it again. He made his own choices, lived his own life, and. And Lloyd never doubted him.

When nights were sleepless and he turned his unquiet mind away from thoughts of the underhanded things he was doing for Seles's sake, he acknowledged the least pleasant part of this whole damn mess: Lloyd reminded him of Kratos. And there was a part of him doing all this for himself.

 

In Flanoir, Zelos observed the weather with profound distaste and shoved his hands in his pockets, shivering. What a long way he'd come, especially for someone with loyalties so particular as his. There was a range of people who'd spent most of this year using him for his title, so he, too, had used it, strictly in his own defense. They all needed him: he didn't. And somehow, Lloyd, the least manipulative of them all, had managed to make significant progress towards his own goals. Damn significant progress—Lloyd was _close_.

A frigid wind blew through his hair and the accompanying rise of goosebumps on his forearms felt familiar, at least moreso than the man beside him did. He considered the proposal, and commented, “Never thought I’d need that stuff again.”

Kratos closed his eyes and tilted his head back in a slight nod. “True, most only require it once in their lives.”

Unspoken words hung beyond Kratos’s statement, but Zelos ignored them. “You’re gonna make the Eternal Ring, huh?”

Kratos made an affirmative noise.

Talkative as ever; Zelos bristled. He considered the silence for a long moment, frowning as he thought about... everything. The end was unavoidably approaching, and try though he might Zelos couldn’t deny he’d already chosen his side, despite how the odds looked. It was a queer feeling, and sat uneasily in his belly. He didn’t need Kratos’s opinion, but... Shoulders hunched up to his ears, he asked Kratos directly, “So what do you think about all this anyway? Sure looks like Lloyd’s gonna dismantle your life.”

Kratos made a further noise in his throat; his only other reply was a thin smile.

“What, seriously? You’ve been part of this institute since it began and you’re just smiling about it going to pieces? What the hell are you going to do with all your time, old man?” Zelos stopped dead as the realisation hit him: Kratos wasn’t planning on having time. “Oh hell no.”

Kratos shot him a glance. “What?”

Zelos shook his head firmly, refusing to look at Kratos. “You’re sick. You’re useless. I fucking hate you.”

Kratos’s expression grew more serious, slightly guilty around the edges, and he stood straighter.

Flooded with disgust and fury, Zelos rounded on Kratos and seized him by the collar, snarling, “You’re going to make him do it, aren’t you? You sick fuck. You aren’t even brave enough to do it yourself.”

“No.” Kratos asserted, quietly. “I am not.”

“How could you do that? Wait, don’t answer that.” Zelos released him and flicked his hands away from himself, as though touching Kratos had soiled his gloves, “You’re always doing shit you can’t live with. Hence.” Zelos felt his shoulders shuddering, around raw emotions without names. How dare he? He could Kratos just... give up? After everything—after everything Lloyd had done?

“Hence.” Kratos agreed.

“Fuck you. Don’t do that to Lloyd.” A beat. Zelos's heart compressed painfully, his mouth dry and his stomach knotted. He already knew the answer he'd get, but he spoke anyway. “How could you do that? He’s your son.”

“He’s Dirk’s son.”

Always making _excuses_ —Zelos didn't think he would find anything even half so revolting if he lived twice as long as Kratos had. Disdainful and acidic, he muttered, “Yeah well at least Dirk wouldn’t kill himself on Lloyd’s swords, dwarf or not. You’re pathetic. Remind me again why I'm doing this for you?”

“For Lloyd.” Kratos murmured.

Zelos scowled like a thunderstorm and turned his back. “Yeah. For Lloyd.” Damn him.

 

Zelos had no trouble admitting that he'd never liked Heimdall. Something about being surrounded by sullen old elves made his hackles rise, and sleeping through the night seemed like a distant fantasy. There was just too much to think about. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Lloyd a sideways smile, weak though it was. “Sorry for calling you out here in the middle of the night.”

Lloyd shrugged. “Nah, don't worry about it. What's up?”

Zelos spread his arms to either side, sighing. “I'll get right to the point. What's up with this Kratos guy?”

“What do you mean, what's up?”

“Doesn't he piss you off?!”

Lloyd looked nonplussed. “Zelos, why are you so mad?”

“He's done all this stuff to us.” _Me._ And _you_. Zelos wanted to look at Lloyd but worried about what his expression would say for him; instead he shook his head sharply, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Oh, he knew. He knew so much of what Kratos was doing, was trying to do, and he couldn't damn well stand it. “Turned against us and even betrayed his own son. Damn right I'm mad!”

Lloyd gave him a concerned look. “Um... do you really think you're in a position to be mad?”

Honed defensive instincts dragged the response from his lips—louder than he felt and truer than he meant. “We don't need to talk about me. I'm really good at conveniently forgetting things like that!”

“That's hardly something to brag about.”

“I think...” Zelos hesitated, doing his best to control his features. Lloyd might not be brilliant, but he had a streak of understanding in him and would definitely be able to figure out how much of what Zelos was saying was for his own benefit if he wasn't careful. Hah, even now, he couldn't help but take advantage of Lloyd. Zelos grimaced, unclenching his hands. “Parents are there to protect their children.”

“Well... yeah.” Lloyd agreed, his head cocked slightly to one side.

Zelos ignored how the pose made Lloyd look like Kratos. “But this guy, he just goes back and forth, like he can't make up his mind. Doesn't he realize that it only hurts you?” _Me_. “And then after all that, he challenges you to a duel?! What kind of family turns swords against one another?! This whole thing's nuts!” It felt like he'd been wanting to say this for weeks. Every time Lloyd had caught his eye, with that determined expression on his face, Zelos had thought about telling him what Kratos planned. Maybe part of him had hoped the old man would come to his senses. Maybe part of him would always feel too young to tell off his teacher. Maybe part of him would never be able to tell Lloyd everything Kratos was to him.

“Yeah... well, I guess that's true...”

“You certainly don't seem that worked up about it. Doesn't he piss you off?”

“Well, right now you're mad enough for both of us.”

Zelos bit his lip, caught out. He shook his head again, staring at a nearby lightbug. “... I hate parents like that. Parents who just jerk their kids around for their own convenience.” People like his own parents, like Kratos. Like him.

Lloyd nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, when you put it that way, I guess he did kinda jerk me around.”

“Exactly! I mean, he knew about the Eternal Sword and Eternal Ring from the very beginning and didn't say a word about them! ... Uh!”

“... What? What about the Eternal Ring?” Lloyd snapped, incensed.

Shit. “Uh... well...”

“Is Kratos the one who told you about the Eternal Ring?”

Zelos grappled for purchase in the conversation, embarrassed for getting so distracted with his own frustration, “... S... so, Lloyd. After we've succeeded in reuniting the worlds, what are you gonna do?”

Lloyd wouldn't be swayed. “Zelos, you heard about the Ring from Kratos, didn't you?”

This wasn't what he was going for when he started this conversation. Zelos ran a hand through his hair, scrabbling at his thoughts. “... He... he knew everything. That humans can't use the Eternal Sword, the details of Colette's sickness, the way to make the Eternal Ring—everything.” That he'd known about it for the whole of Zelos's life wasn't a factor to bring up now. That he'd known... and kept his mouth shut. That was the point.

“Yeah, I guess when you think about it that way, he could have said something sooner.”

“Exactly!”

Lloyd went on, though, measured and thoughtful. “But even if he had told us, I don't think we would have believed him. So maybe he did his best to gauge when to do what and to set things up for us along the way.”

Lloyd... somehow always managed to get things right. It wasn't a thought Zelos wanted to acknowledge, but maybe the damn old man... It was too much to settle inside himself now, but he had to give Lloyd the credit where it was due. That wasn't a conclusions Zelos would have been willing to reach on his own. “When you put it that way, I suppose that might be true. Now I feel kinda stupid for getting so worked up over it.”

Lloyd shook his head. “Not at all. ... Because you were upset, I think I've calmed down. I'm not worked up anymore.”

Zelos gave the night sky a moody glare, wishing he could say the same. “... Oh. Well, that's good then.”

Lloyd didn't seem to notice, rounding resolute. “... Tomorrow, I'll fight Kratos and then I'll ask him what he was thinking, and what he was trying to do.”

“... Tomorrow...” Zelos didn't think it would be fair to tell Lloyd that knowing what Kratos was thinking never seemed to make him more relatable, sympathetic, or comprehensible. Instead, he found himself remembering when Kratos had first told him about Colette, and the fear it had inspired in his younger self. The image of Colette's pretty smile played against his childhood imaginings of someone as young and angry as he'd been. An imagined chorus of people calling her by name whistled through his hearing, and he bit his lip. “If Origin's seal is broken, the worlds will begin to unite, right?” After the worlds united... there wouldn't be a need for Chosens.

“... Yeah.” Lloyd suddenly turned to him with a grin, brighter, “Oh, yeah, about that question you asked earlier...I'm planning to go on a journey to search for Exspheres.”

“Huh?” If the worlds were united, surely the Exspheres, too... Unbidden, Zelos's fingers danced nervously across his Cruxis Crystal.

“You asked what I was gonna do after the worlds are united.”

... He had done that, hadn't he? Zelos dragged himself away from his own moroseness, forcing himself to think. “... Oh, I get it. That sounds like a good idea. We should put the Exspheres somewhere people will never get their hands on them again... for the sake of living beings, as well as lifeless ones.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

He'd never thought about it. It was only in the last few days he'd considered living beyond the end of things. He looked at Lloyd, patiently awaiting his answer, and something lifted inside him. He grinned. “Me? Hmm, good question. The institution of the Chosen will surely be abolished. So, uh...I guess I'll just tag along with you!”

“Huh?! Are you serious?”

“Yep, I think it's an awesome idea, if I do say so myself.” What was it going to make up for? Would it change what Kratos was going to do? No, but it would make him just that much better than the old man. That, in turn, would make him that much more able to live with himself. Maybe. “Zelos, savior of the world, on a journey with his faithful sidekick. What do you think?”

Lloyd's mouth moved like he was suppressing a smile. “...Whatever, man. Do what you like.”

Would Lloyd ever realise how grateful he was? Probably not. “Okay then, it's settled! It's gonna be awesome traveling around with me, just you wait!” He slung an arm around Lloyd's shoulders and squeezed him tightly, unable to contain himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” Lloyd did smile then, and Zelos had to force himself not to wonder what Kratos would look like wearing the same expression.


End file.
